A Knife in the Fog

by Bradley Harper

  After viewing the wanton mutilation of a fellow human being at first hand, I was more convinced than ever that forsaking the crime-story genre was a wise decision on my part. Surely there was enough cruelty and injustice in the world without the fictional adventures of my consulting detective to add to them. If people wanted to read of gore and destruction, they could easily turn to any newspaper. I vowed to have no further part in such titillation, and to never pen another tale involving my phlegmatic Mr. Holmes. I was ashamed I had written even one.

  Returning to the real world, I was anxious to hear what Abberline had learned from his night’s work, but I was reluctant to visit the inspector without Bell’s keen mind to make sense of it, so we decided to part for the remainder of the day. Though I had benefitted from my three hours of sleep that morning, I was quite willing to spend the afternoon dozing in a comfortable leather chair at the Marlborough, while Bell labored over his reports.

  Margaret agreed to a ride back to her flat. While hailing a cab, I glanced back and saw my two fellow Musketeers in an earnest conversation. Suddenly, Margaret clasped the professor’s right hand warmly with both of hers, then dabbed at her eyes as though to wipe away tears. I received a nod from a driver, summoned my colleagues, and made no remark regarding what I had just seen.

  We were silent during our trip to Margaret’s tenement, each buried in our own thoughts. Margaret’s eyes were still moist from whatever had transpired, while Bell appeared to be mentally composing his report. I confess I was jealous of the professor for the heartfelt exchange I had just seen pass between the two of them. I acknowledge such childlike emotions now with great shame, for when we arrived at Margaret’s flat, she said to Bell, “You must come in and tell her. I refuse to do it alone!”

  Bell smiled warmly and agreed. “Come, Doyle,” he said. “We have a brief deviation. I promise to get you to the comforts of the Marlborough within the hour.”

  I disembarked with my comrades, for so I thought of them now, and paid the driver before filling in the expense in my now well-worn accounts ledger.

  We trudged up the stairs, and after Margaret let us in she went straight to Miss Jones.

  “Molly, Professor Bell has something to ask you.”

  Miss Jones had been knitting, and as her hands had been occupied, her habitual rag had been laid aside. She seemed embarrassed to be caught unawares without it, but as she had difficulty being understood speaking through it, left it where it lay.

  “Miss Jones,” asked Bell, “have you ever been to Edinburgh?”

  “No sir,” she replied, shaking her head, clearly puzzled.

  “I have a proposition for you then,” continued the professor. “I would like you to accompany me back to Edinburgh when I return. Phossy jaw is unknown in Scotland, as we have no match factories. You would make an excellent teaching case for my medical students and surgery residents. If you do not mind being examined by a group of cold-handed apprentice healers, I will pay for your trip to Edinburgh and back, and have you admitted to the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh. Furthermore, I will perform the surgery myself. I will not be able to replace the bone you have lost, but I can restore your appetite, stop the drainage, and clear your mind. You will live, Miss Jones. What say you to that?”

  The woman sat completely still for perhaps three heartbeats, then began to sob uncontrollably.

  “Y-yes,” she managed to whisper. “Dear God, yes!”

  Molly stood, and Margaret embraced her for a long time, while we two men stood there, embarrassed at this outpouring of female emotion.

  Mine was surely the heavier burden, however, due to the added shame of my unworthy thoughts moments ago about my friends. I had no doubt at that moment; Professor Joseph Bell was a far better man than me.

  Once decorum was reestablished, Bell asked if he could show me the hallmarks of her case.

  Miss Jones seemed confused by this, but Margaret nodded and reassured her. “He wants to show Doctor Doyle your jaw.”

  Molly agreed readily enough, and then Margaret, without any coaching from Bell, closed the drapes.

  Bell took me by the hand and led me to her. I could tell by the stench of the necrotic bone I was drawing nearer. Then in the darkness, I saw something that both repelled and fascinated me. As a surgeon on a whaling vessel I had seen the Northern Lights glimmering majestically in the Arctic sky. Here I saw the green-and-yellow glowing of phosphorous embedded within her dead and dying bone, slowly leaching out and poisoning her.

  I had seen much pain, suffering, and evil this past week. Here was another example, though one with a crucial difference; this evil could be rectified. Perhaps I was so deeply affected by the sight because I saw it as a metaphor for our efforts to catch this wanton killer of the helpless. We could not replace what was lost, but we could prevent further damage. Though an imperfect solution, it was still something.

  We said our goodbyes to the ladies of Vine Street, and during our trip back to the club, Bell confessed the idea of taking Miss Jones as a teaching case had occurred to him at the conclusion of the postmortem. “After I invited Doctor Brown to lecture at Edinburgh, her case suddenly occurred to me as an instructive opportunity. I have no hospital privileges in London, and while we are engaged in this matter I could not give her case the attention it requires. I must return to Scotland by the end of the week due to Her Majesty’s pending travel to Balmoral. There are many things I can alter, but the itinerary of a Royal Personage is not one of them. Miss Jones can accompany me, I can assure her prompt admission to hospital, present her case, and perform her surgery.”

  “How will she return to London, Professor?” I asked. “You may be returning in a month, or not for some time later.”

  “Once she can travel,” Bell explained, “I shall purchase her return ticket and place her on the train. Since it is a direct journey to London, Margaret can meet her at the railway station. My students will get an excellent clinical presentation, and Miss Jones is spared from a slow and painful death.”

  “Thank you, Professor,” I said sincerely. “Both for her sake and for Margaret’s.”

  Bell did not reply in words; his small smile of satisfaction told me everything. As befits a gentleman.

  I was still ashamed at my previous jealousy toward Bell regarding Margaret’s brief display of affection toward him. To lighten my mood, I attempted a small demonstration for Professor Bell, to show him his lessons on observation had not been wasted.

  “Regarding our colleague, Doctor Brown,” I ventured. “I deduce that he suffered from rickets as a child, is a life-long bachelor, and studied medicine in France.”

  Bell looked at me in silent amazement for a moment. I was starting to swell with pride when he suddenly burst out laughing. After maybe twenty seconds of hilarity, he paused to wipe the tears from his eyes. He asked then, not unkindly, “Ah, and upon what grounds do ye make ye’r deductions, lad?” This time I interpreted his Scottish brogue as signifying that he was amused.

  “Well, to start . . .” I began defensively, “there is his gait. He has a wide stance and walks with his legs rather farther apart. Someone with rickets has bowing of the femur, which can cause such a gait in adulthood when the bones are fully grown yet still bent.”

  “And his bachelorhood?” Bell inquired mildly.

  “He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring,” I declared, proud of my newfound powers of observation.

  “And his studies in France?” Bell persisted.

  “Surely, Professor, you saw the medical degree on his wall in French,” I replied, increasingly uneasy about my accuracy, since Bell’s expression continued to show his amusement.

  Bell shook his head; I hoped in admiration at my conclusions. Then he thoroughly shattered my illusions.

  “The stance, Doyle, is due to his early days as an avid polo player. There was a well-scuffed ball resting on the corner of his desk. Those who spend long hours astride a horse develop the same gait you correctly describe. Also, besides bowing o
f the legs, rickets causes thickening of the wrists and ankles. I didn’t see his ankles, but his wrists appeared entirely normal.”

  My ears were burning, but I felt obliged to defend my remaining conclusions. “And the absence of a wedding ring?” I asked.

  “Taken off prior to the autopsy, my friend,” Bell said. “I saw him place it in his pocket when he stood. Also, there was a crude drawing on the wall of his office, apparently from a loving child. Only a devoted father would display the work of a budding artist of around five years of age in their workplace.”

  Now I was like a chess player playing for a stalemate. “And the French medical diploma?” I said, employing my final gambit.

  “The diploma is indeed in French,” Bell agreed. “But the seal was from the Université de Montréal in Canada. I fear, my friend, that your deductions are wide of the mark. But I am pleased to see you exercising your powers of observation. Do not despair; it will come.”

  I was saved from further embarrassment as, at that moment, we arrived at the club.

  “Ah, here we are!” Bell said with satisfaction. “I have a report to compose for what appears to be a very strict headmaster. I trust you can find some means to entertain yourself while I labor in the vineyards?”

  After my less-than-sterling performance at playing detective, I was ready to retreat to the library, sulk, and, of course, nap. I knew my companion would have no difficulty meeting Major Smith’s expectations, and the report would not take overly long to produce. My learned companion was as sure with his pen as his knife.

  I also knew there would yet be tough sledding ahead. Having once fallen through the ice four times in three days while seal hunting (prompting the captain to inquire if I was trying to swim back to England), that saying holds a special significance for me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE RIPPER IS BORN

  Monday, October 1

  The next morning Bell and I dined at six so he could deliver his report by seven o’clock to Major Smith. We arrived on the hour and were promptly ushered into the acting commissioner’s office by the gloomy desk sergeant, who greeted us only with a nod and “He’s expecting you.”

  Major Smith was as meticulously groomed as before, and although he did not smile, he did nod approvingly when Bell presented him with the summation of the postmortem examinations for the four victims.

  “It’s refreshing to deal with a man who keeps his end of a bargain,” he said. “Based upon your cooperation, I have decided to liaise regularly with Inspector Swanson, Commissioner Warren’s lead man on the murders. It is best for all concerned to put our jurisdictional squabbles aside to bring this cur to heel. Is there anything else you would ask of my office?”

  “Thank you, Major,” replied Bell. “Might we speak with one of your inspectors to get an accounting of how the body was found, and what you have learned of the victim’s movements the last few hours before her discovery?”

  “Certainly, Professor, though I doubt you will learn much more than what is in today’s papers. I fear some of my men are over fond of speaking with journalists. Superintendent James McWilliam is the man heading our investigation. Let me compose a brief note to him authorizing disclosure of information to you and Inspector Swanson.”

  The note was written quickly, and, bearing our latest in a series of passports, we returned to the desk sergeant. He nodded wordlessly toward an adjacent hall, which led to the office of Superintendent McWilliam.

  We found a slender, pale man immersed in a cloud of cigarette smoke, actively consuming the latest of apparently many vile-smelling specimens. He was in his early forties and, like his superior, was immaculately groomed, and dressed in a suit more in keeping with a successful banker than a police officer.

  I recalled Abberline’s disparaging remarks about his colleagues in the City of London Police, and inwardly smiled when we presented ourselves to this nervous gentleman who greeted us cautiously through thick horn-rimmed spectacles.

  Bell explained our purpose and asked the inspector if he could give us any details regarding the discovery of the body in Mitre Square.

  “I can only spare you a moment,” he responded, with the raspy voice common in tobacco fiends. “If brevity does not offend, I will spare what time I can.”

  “Most generous and much appreciated,” replied the professor. “Then I shall be brief as well. I have four questions: What can you tell me about the victim? How was she discovered? What did your investigation of the scene reveal? And, finally, what do you know of her activities during her final day?”

  McWilliam smiled briefly, revealing the yellowed teeth of the habitual smoker, and nodded. “Her name and movements I can tell you readily enough. Her name was Catherine Eddowes, a middle-aged married woman with no known history as a streetwalker, but she was well-known for frequent public drunkenness. From approximately nine o’clock Saturday night until one Sunday morning she was a guest at the Bishopsgate police station—for public intoxication after collapsing during a performance of fire engine impersonations for an appreciative audience. Mitre Square, where the body was found, is about eight minutes’ walk from the station.

  “At a quarter before two, Police Constable Watkins discovered the body of a woman lying on her back with her throat slit and her dress thrown up over her waist. Watkins was most affected by what he saw, especially the wounds to the face, which I understand have not been a feature of previous attacks.”

  Having recently seen her facial disfigurement in daylight in the city morgue, I could well imagine the effect they could have on a nonmedical person when viewed without warning by the light of a bull’s-eye lantern.

  McWilliam continued. “Watkins summoned a night watchman at a nearby warehouse, then dispatched him to gather reinforcements from other constables patrolling nearby. The watchman soon returned with two others. One fetched Doctor Sequira, who arrived just before two o’clock and, after a very brief examination, pronounced her dead. I got there shortly after two thirty with a robust contingent of detectives, and took command of the ongoing search of the area and the questioning of all found wandering about.”

  “And no one saw or heard anything?” I asked. “How is that possible?”

  The superintendent’s brows knitted together in frustration. “I confess I am baffled as to how such a gruesome crime could be committed with so many people nearby. One of our force, Police Constable Pearse, resides at 3 Mitre Square, and his bedroom window looks out upon the murder site scant yards away. And the night watchman summoned by PC Watkins guards the premises of a warehouse directly across the square from where the body was found. The man was awake and on duty when Watkins arrived, claiming to have heard the constable’s footsteps as he walked his beat, yet says he heard nothing unusual.”

  “What of the graffito?” Bell asked. “What route would the killer take to reach the site where the apron fragment and message were found?”

  “Well, Professor, after the killer finished with Mrs. Eddowes, the most likely route from Mitre Square to the site of the message is via St. James’s Place. This required him to pass by a metropolitan fire station, yet the firemen on duty claim not to have seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. More puzzling to me, however, is that at one thirty City detectives were organizing plainclothes patrols on the eastern border of our jurisdiction, so it appears the murderer passed right through our screen undetected.”

  He stared down at his hands, which were resting on the desk for a moment, perhaps contemplating how the killer had slipped through his grasp. So close. So painfully close.

  He shook himself out of his reverie, and concluded emphatically, “I do not believe in the supernatural, gentlemen, but I cannot explain how someone could perpetrate such a horrendous crime, which must have taken several minutes to perform, in a public square, then float unnoticed through a gauntlet of alert and experienced police officers.”

  Bell listened intently to McWilliam’s recitation. I noticed his body tense when the s
uperintendent related his frustration at the killer slipping through the contingent of plainclothes officers. This madman’s skills in murder and evasion did invoke the unsettling vision of a creature from another realm. I shivered at the image.

  “Thank you, Superintendent,” Bell replied. “You have been brief but most informative. The need for brevity forces us to sift the essential from the chaff. We’ll leave you to it, but should we have questions in future, I hope we may call upon you again.”

  McWilliam nodded, responding amiably to Bell’s praise and professional bearing. Often afterward, when confronted with an obstructive individual, I have thought back to how the professor would respond in such instances and have found his example worthy of imitation. He never compromised his dignity; yet never did he detract from another’s. His assumption that all men saw themselves as honorable allowed him to enlist their sympathies to whatever cause he was championing. Sadly, his skill in winning people’s collaboration, like his observational and deductive skills, was something to admire but difficult to emulate.

  The fact that Bell, Margaret, and I were not agents of any official body meant that while we had to negotiate our way into the investigation, we were not encumbered with the animosities that permeated the police hierarchies within London. In retrospect, I shake my head in admiration at the way my old mentor exploited the situation.

  It was scarcely nine o’clock when we found ourselves outside. “What now?” I asked.

  “I want to learn what Inspector Abberline has discovered since yesterday. Let’s add Pennyworth to our party and return to Spitalfields. I would also like to speak with Doctor Phillips to see if his postmortem revealed anything of interest from the other victim. That should take the rest of the day.”

  Bell was a dynamo, fueled with purpose. I believe after seeing the handiwork of the killer in the morgue the day before, the importance of our mission was impressed upon him, as my conversation with Margaret after the postmortem had done to me.